


The audience paid plenty (to sit there and clap)

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire nearly trips over thin air because of this, which would have been pretty fucking awful considering his left ankle is still absolutely botched and he can't really afford to do his right one in as well.</p><p>
  <i>There's a saying in theatre: What can go wrong, will go wrong.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The audience paid plenty (to sit there and clap)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovely_narcissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_narcissa/gifts).



> Hello! I hope you enjoy your gift, and Happy Halloween!

It was supposed to be a way of keeping up his own dancing skills at first.

Except now it’s five weeks to show week, Grantaire goes to the group three times a week after work, and he’s starting to live in his leotard. He seriously needs a new leotard.

Grantaire hooks a finger into the bottom of said leotard, and pulls it out of a wedgie. Any shame he might have had, years ago, at doing that in front of other people vanished long ago, eclipsed by the sudden horror of _testicles_ when he was around fourteen that led to him buying his first dance belt. Now, it’s more of an absent movement in between lunges as they warm up, chatting about their day and tutting mockingly (lovingly, but mockingly) at people who dash in, late, held up by traffic or work.

“You could just wear a t-shirt and shorts, like the rest of us,” says Courfeyrac, whose head is rather close to Grantaire's arse, by sheer virtue of the fact that the church they rent to practice in isn't big enough for all of them to actually spread out.

"That would involve changing after work," says Grantaire, flexing his toes, and hearing at least three of them click. "And I'm too tired after dealing with kids to do that. Besides. Those things you’re wearing can hardly be called shorts."

"Yeah, but unlike you, I deliberately change into these after work," says Courfeyrac, grinning.

“We start in five,” calls Enjolras, shaking his limbs out. His voice echoes across the church, and everyone starts to gather towards him. They're an eclectic group; a good mixture of singers and actors and dancers and people who kind of do all three. It makes picking productions a real challenge. Enjolras, for example, would be quite happy if they only ever did productions of Shakespeare, whereas Courfeyrac would be up for a two hour freestyle breakdance battle with zero prior choreography. As a not-particularly-suitable compromise, they’re doing a musical.

*             *             *

Four weeks before show week, Grantaire trips over the CD player when one of his eight year olds, Alice messes up one of her jumps and lurches sideways into him.

The first thing Grantaire says is: “I’m sorry.”

Everyone stares at him as he limps into the church, late, his crutch echoing on the stone floor.

"Shit," says Enjolras, staring down at him. "Grantaire, it looks _awful_.”

Combeferre elbows him in vague horror. “What he means is, _Shit, Grantaire, are you alright_?”

Finally reaching the stage area, Grantaire plops himself down on one of the pews with a laugh. “It’s fine, Combeferre, you don’t have to look so shocked. I did actually text him when I was in the hospital. I didn’t think it’d be a good idea to turn up like this with no warning.”

“Oh good.” Combeferre looks relieved. “In that case, I agree, it looks awful. What are we going to do?”

What they are going to do, apparently, is stick to the understudy plans, except there are barely enough of them to cover all the parts, let alone have understudies, so what it actually means is that Enjolras has to learn all of Grantaire’s choreography and Grantaire gets to sit on a rock and make occasional pithy remarks and monologues. It’s not really that different from what he does now, to be fair, so it’s not _his_ new part he’s worried about.

“I have never felt so unfit in my life,” wheezes Enjolras, stretching out a leg cramp at the end of their evening.

“We’re never going to get this done,” says Grantaire, rubbing at his ankle, because he’s like a dog with a bone with it. It hurts, and he’s going to prod it occasionally just to see if it still hurts. It definitely still hurts. “Sorry. I know you’re trying really hard, but it’s not—it’s not exactly easy choreography.” There is a reason Grantaire was meant to be doing it.

 “I know.” Enjolras smiles, crookedly. “It was meant to look really impressive, and you’re stuck with me, instead. I’ll just have to fit in practice more. I could do Wednesdays, after work, or Fridays…” He trails off. “If you have the time, of course.”

It occurs to Grantaire suddenly that Enjolras and he don’t spend much time together outside of their AmDram group. He’ll go for drinks at the weekend with Joly and Bossuet, and hit the gym with Bahorel, but he’s usually only out with Enjolras if they’re out as a group.

“I think you think I have more of a social life than I do,” says Grantaire dryly. “If I’m not practising, it’s mostly Netflix and chill, which you are welcome to.”

“Um,” says Enjolras.

“Actual Netflix,” clarifies Grantaire, his face suddenly red. “And actual chilling.”

“Ah,” says Enjolras.

“Unless you… want the… other kind…” Grantaire has no idea what is currently possessing him.

“Hmm,” says Enjolras, and dimples at him. It’s actually impressive how expressive Enjolras is at using only non-committal noises.

*             *             *

The following Friday, Grantaire is doing his littlies class. They’re technically called the Hatchlings class, tiny little three and four year olds who can barely remember what he teaches them from class to class, but that’s where it’s actually advantageous that his studio isn’t very big – it means all his classes are small and he can actually give them all proper attention.

It’s almost the end of the class, when attentions are starting to wander, Grantaire’s included, when he looks up. Enjolras is leaning in the doorway. He's smiling. He’s wearing a suit. Grantaire can’t decide which is more shocking.

Grantaire nearly trips over thin air because of this, which would have been pretty fucking awful considering his left ankle is still absolutely botched and he can't really afford to do his right one in as well. He waves, and then turns back around to little Amelia. He blinks for a few seconds as he tries to remember what he was saying to her. "Remember how to straighten your arms?" he says, extending it out all the way from shoulder to fingertip.

She tries to copy – she won’t get it for a few years yet, but if she sticks with it, she’s got quite a lot of natural talent. Grantaire moves down the line, making small changes to the kids as he goes.

"What do we do with our toes?" Grantaire asks one of his boys.

Philippe screws up his chubby face like he’s never been asked to point his toes before. Grantaire usually tells him about five times in a forty minute class.

Grantaire tries to decide if he wants to put weight on his bad foot and point the good one, or stand on the good one and point the bad one. He doesn't have to make the choice though, because Enjolras is suddenly there, having shucked his shoes off and walked over in just his socks.

"Like this," says Enjolras, and demonstrates perfectly pointed toes. He has arches that would make any ballet dancer sigh in envy. It’s probably not a good thing that Grantaire has thought about Enjolras’ arches. "Grantaire teaches me how to do this too."

"You?" asks Philippe, squinting suspiciously up at Enjolras. "But you're _big_. You have to _teach_ if you're big."

"I'm not very big compared to Grantaire though," says Enjolras solemnly, and straightens out to show how he's almost a hand width shorter than Grantaire.

Grantaire hides his smile, and finishes the rest of the line as Enjolras shows Philippe how to point his toes, and moves into the cool down.

"Who'da thought? You're good with kids," says Grantaire out of the corner of his mouth when the last child skips out of the studio after the class, waving at them. They wave back.

"I'm not really," admits Enjolras. "I'm just good at talking shop."

“That’s good, considering what we’re about to do,” says Grantaire, grabbing a cloth and quickly cleaning grubby little handprints off the mirror.

“I brought you something,” says Enjolras, and hands over a CD.

“What’s this?”

“The monologues. I recorded them for you.”

Grantaire is about to automatically go on the defence, bristle and say that he doesn’t need hand holding, but – well, he might. Besides, he’s handholding Enjolras through the dancing. He takes it, and turns it over his hands slowly. “Thanks.”

*             *             *

Three weeks before show week, the church does a harvest collection, and their practice space is suddenly completely covered with tin cans and bags of rice with vague promises that it’ll all be gone soon. Enjolras manages to invite them round to Grantaire’s studio before actually asking Grantaire’s opinion about it.

"Sooooo," says Grantaire. "Welcome to my home."

"You don't actually live here, do you?" asks Cosette, ducking in under his arm and looking around inquisitively.

Grantaire laughs. "No, but I might as well, considering how much time I spend in here."

It's not really anything special, just a studio space with one mirrored wall with a bar, a CD player that lives in the corner because there's not enough room for a piano and he can't play anyway, and a worn but sprung floor. The only really nice feature about the location is invisible at this time of day, but the wall of tall windows are stained glass gothic arches, courtesy of the building being an old converted church. It's bare, but Grantaire feel strangely nervous, like he's baring something quite person to the rest of Les Amis. He's not, he doesn't think. Strange, but he wasn’t half as nervous when it was just Enjolras.

"Thank you," says Enjolras as Grantaire flicks the light on and they pad into the room, dumping bags and coats on one side. “And – I’m sorry.”

Grantaire frowns, and Enjolras raises one shoulder and waves vaguely at the studio, and Grantaire somehow understands that he means for inviting all their friends over without asking him. He wonders when he learnt to read Enjolras that well.

*             *             *

"I can't do it," says Enjolras. Stray wisps of his hair have escaped his bun and straggle over his face; he tosses them out of his face angrily, blotches of red high on his cheeks. Grantaire silently hands him a towel, and Enjolras scrubs it over his head, emerging like a grumpy baby lion.

"Then go home," says Grantaire, leaning on the bar. Enjolras scowls petulantly at him from beneath his puffy, damp mane.

Grantare smiles lopsidedly at him, and reaches out to help comb his hair back into place. He's pretty good at teaching, he likes to think, and he's learnt the different ways to deal with his different kids. Some of them need coaxing and reassurance. Some of the others need space and time to figure it out themselves. Others need challenge. Enjolras is one of those.

Enjolras exhales loudly, and leans his head into Grantaire’s hand for just a moment. "Let's go over it again."

"Nah," says Grantaire. "You need a break. Heck, I need a break. Let's stretch out, and grab some food. You can go back to overworking yourself afterwards."

Enjolras looks like he's about to argue.

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," says Grantaire, and Enjolras wilts. They end up stretching out and getting terrible pizza.

*             *             *

One week to show week, they’re back in the church and do their first full run through, which should have happened long ago but they’ve been reblocking things to make things easier for Grantaire and to accommodate Enjolras’ lack of dance scenes to rehearse, and Grantaire completely and utterly blanks the whole of his monologue. It’s mortifying, and not helped by Enjolras desperately hissing the start of every line at him each and every time he forgets it.

“Let’s move on,” says Combeferre after two minutes of Grantaire gaping like a fish.

Enjolras finds him afterwards, lying on one of the pews with his eyes closed and his arm draped over his face like a proper Duke Orsino. Grantaire opens his mouth when the footsteps stop, before Enjolras can get there. “I can’t do this,” he says. He’s aware it sounds whiny.

“Then go home,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire’s heart stops for a moment, and then he moves his arm to glare up at Enjolras, who is fucking _grinning_ down at him, the bastard.

“I hate you,” says Grantaire flatly.

“Come on,” says Enjolras. “I want to work on the reprise, and you can practice your monologue at me the same time.”

“Urgh,” says Grantaire, and has no intention of moving at all until Enjolras holds out a hand to help him up, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile, and looking impossibly fond. Fuck.

*             *             *

Two days before tech rehearsal, Enjolras finally nails every one of his dance routines.

“Yesssss,” Grantaire crows, and flings himself at Enjolras before his brain can decide on whether that’s a good idea or not. Fortunately, Enjolras catches him and even manages to swing him around a couple of times before they collapse onto the floor in a slightly sweaty pile, laughing.

 “I hope you don’t do this with all of your students,” says Enjolras archly, his face only inches from Grantaire’s, his breath warm across Grantaire’s nose.

“Only the really hopeless ones who take forever to get something,” he says.

“Oi,” says Enjolras indignantly, and jabs a finger into Grantaire’s side and Grantaire’s lethal weakness as a dancer is that he is terribly, horribly ticklish, which was not great when he was a student and would drop a girl the moment she’d place her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, and means that right now, he curls up, whacking Enjolras in the shoulder with his forehead and accidentally kicking him too.

“Oh, fuck, ow, ow,” Grantaire gasps between laughs, and laughs some more when he sees Enjolras’ sudden apologetic, panicked face looming over him. He reaches a hand out and presses it over Enjolras’ face, like he can smooth the worry lines away. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

Enjolras turns his face into Grantaire’s hand, and eventually mumbles, “Okay. Won’t do it again.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “Definitely feel free to do it again, just when I’m out of the bandages.”

*             *             *

 Show week comes, inevitably. "Salad," sighs Enjolras, tucking into it miserably.

"Mmmm," says Grantaire, who doesn’t have to worry about bloating and rolls of fat appearing in strange places at inappropriate times because he gets to wear normal clothes, and not dancer clothes for once. "Burger."

Everyone else glares at him. He grins at them, props his bad leg up on a spare chair, and bites into his lovely greasiness. Being a normal actor is great, he should do this more often. Though, he has to admit that Enjolras, given a monologue, is a sight to behold.

Grantaire's been in the business for too long for other people undressing to affect him anymore. People don't get to stay in the industry if they spend their precious changing time staring at other people, especially since they all have a sense of unreality regarding their bodies anyway; they all spend far too long scrutinising themselves in mirrors, prodding and poking muscles into place, coaxing lines of fat into seams and contorting their lines.

Still. When Enjolras peels his t-shirt off, Grantaire lets his eyes sweep down appreciatively.

“Well?” asks Enjolras when he catches him looking.

“Boring lettuce meal is definitely working,” advises Grantaire, his mouth more dry than he thought it was before he’d opened it to start talking.

“Excellent,” says Enjolras briskly, and strips his jeans and underwear off in one movement as well.

“Fuck me,” croaks Grantaire, more instinct than anything else. “Warn a guy.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow at him. “How do _you_ put a leotard on?”

Grantaire struggles with it for a moment. “Good point. Can’t think of counter-argument, brain fried,” he admits.

Enjolras grins. He’s _awful_.

“Don’t tease me,” says Grantaire, closing his eyes, and it comes out softer than he means it to. There’s a moment of silence, and then the rustle of movement, until Enjolras is standing in front of him, Grantaire can tell.

“I’m not,” says Enjolras, voice low. Grantaire opens his eyes to see him _right there._ He's dressed now, one hand just above Grantaire's cheek like he'd like to touch, but isn't sure if he's allowed. It takes barely a tilt of his chin for their lips to meet.

 “Oh, no. No, no, wait, no we’re not doing _this_ ,” says Enjolras, jerking away with wide eyes.

Grantaire almost stumbles – his foot twinges, and he chokes down a grunt of pain.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras immediately, reaching out to steady him; Grantaire leans himself on the wall instead, sliding his shoulder under Enjolras’ outstretched hand.

“No, it’s fine,” says Grantaire. “Just getting caught up in the moment, right?”

“What,” says Enjolras. “No. I mean. Yes – I mean. I want to d-do, erm, _this,_ ” he points at the two of them, “—but.”

“But?”

Enjolras stares at him in disbelief, and Grantaire can feel himself ready to shrink back in on himself. “It’s opening night. You know what they say about, about – _being intimate_ on opening night.”

Grantaire wilts in absolute fucking relief. “Bloody hell.”

“After opening night though,” says Enjolras, and just trails off. It was probably meant to come out suave, but he’s an adorable shade of pink, and his eyes can’t quite meet Grantaire’s.

“Oh, afterwards is open season?” asks Grantaire with a short bark of a laugh. “Let’s go break a fucking leg then.”

Enjolras snorts. “I believe that is exactly what got us into this mess in the first place.”


End file.
